In Vain
by Onyxx-09
Summary: This is bad. This is very, very bad. The scruffy, wild bedhead of dark hair is the only other occupant in the bed, partially hidden by an arm hung overhead, and circular glasses awkwardly bent. She panicks because she shouldn't be here, and this bed isn't hers, and who knows what credit card she must have used to get the room, and it is well almost noon, and he damn well isn't hers


_**A/N:** Because I "love" torture. __This includes an oc from one of my other HP fics. Kind of oc, Isobel. That other fic doesn't have to be read because this can be seen as an AU if that fic. Or a divergent from the continued canon. Or whichever really. This is post movie-verse._

 _This is a challenge fic to see how far I could write in one sitting. I'm not expecting for this to get a lot of feedback, if any at all. But of course that would be much appreciated._

* * *

This is bad.

This is very, _very_ bad.

A car's alarm starts in the distance, high pitched and irking. Thick, crisp, comforters that were an ugly burgundy color she would never wear and a heavy lethargy that almost made her regret last night's options enveloped her like a cloud and the brunette wishes she could still be back in the warm, plush ethereal. Instead, now, she looks around in almost horror at the leaden, still room.

It almost made her regret her actions of that long night last night.

 _Almost_.

She had been lying face buried in the lush pillows that were too ethereal for hotel, relaxed and still and peaceful as her fringe of hair clung to her forehead, her thumbtack sharp and lightening brilliant eyes shut as the steady rhythm of gently rose and fell in torpid rhythm as the golden, cozy rays of late-morning sunlight crept across the small bedroom and across her exposed arm.

That had been seconds ago.

And then she woke up startled, heart racing and throat tightening and fuzzy headed because—

This wasn't her apartment, this wasn't her place and—where _was_ she again?

Her unkept head fell in her hands and her nails dug into her scalp. She let out a low, agitated groan. Then the ends of her thick lips curls upward as a sound that wasn't quite a giggle or chuckle follows—it was dry and bitter.

Memories slowly drift back like the sun emerging from an overcast—which was happening outside simultaneously—and they were not pleasant. She remembers Melanie's annual July party she had been invited to and then later that night crossing an face she'd much rather keep in the past, and later the rest of their party showed up, and then...

And then...

Her lips twist in a frown when she looks down and doesn't try to keep the covers elevated and they fall and expose the top of her bruised breasts and she registers the warm, heavy, utterly foreign body next to hers. She crane her neck over and catches sight of the other occupant in her bed and the watch around the left wrist dangling above his head, and the rock in her stomach jumps to her throat as realization hits her.

The scruffy, wild bedhead of dark hair was only partially hidden by an arm hanging overhead. The second pair of pillows beside her is taken, its occupant lying on his stomach and pair of circular glasses strewn crookedly and at a dangerous angle that tthreaten to snap.

The ticking of his watch was the only sound in the room besides his soft snoring.

Shit. _Shit._

The ice-cold, gut wrenching fear struck her like a bolt of lightening and she immediately climbs out of bed, wincing when the mattress springs squeal and does her best to not wake him, and yet the floorboards creak just the slightest bit as she takes a step forward. And for a moment he moves and she panics that he would awake.

He doesn't, and she thanks the heavens.

This was not good.

Because this bed isn't hers, and who knows who's credit card she must have used to get the room, and it was well almost noon—she shouldn't be here!—and _he_ damn well isn't hers.

She tries to swallow the lump in her throat.

* * *

The morning after is—

Unpleasant.

Yet eventful.

He wakes with sunlight practically blinding him and giving the most unpleasant awakening. He scrabbles for his glasses and when he stretches, yawning with that horrid, cotton-thick sickly taste of sleep still on his tongue, his hands brush the empty space beside him with the covers back and—it's warm. He bolts upright, his mind working a bit more slowly but coming to the to the same frightening realization as the woman earlier. He glances at his watch for the time, jumps from the sheets at the realization that he's late, trips and attempts to recover inelegantly, and he calls out the name of the woman earlier.

It was no conundrum trying to recall who it had been. Not now, not after all this time.

He calls her name and is answered by the switch on of a vacuum in the next room.

That morning he had to explain to the housekeeping woman why the door to the hotel room was left cracked open and why he was half-naked and clothed in only the cotton white bed sheets.

This morning was not going well.

—-—-—-—-—-—

The lobby is empty and an elderly couple is picking from the continental breakfast when Potter comes clomping from the elevator down the hallway, all wary and sleep rumpled and looking rather alert like he was waiting for the final and inevitable hand to drop, and frightens the young man behind the front counter. Before the young man could stammer out a routined and perfected "can I help you?" Potter's hands are on the counter and he leans forward for a moment from the momentum and weight.

"Has anyone checked out of Room 309 this morning?" He rushes, tone coming out harsher than intended.

"I—er—checked _out_ , sir?"

He swayed backwards, regaining his balance. "Yes, left earlier—anytime earlier this morning?"

"Er—"

"I'm looking for a woman about ye high, around twenty-five, long brown curly hair. I think she checked out already, I—I need to catch up with her as soon as possible!"

"I, er—"

"Do you understand? Have you seen her? Might've left some time ago?"

The young man raises a brow. "Have you been _robbed_ , sir? Or is there a complaint...?"

Potter hesitates but eventually replies with a slightly confused "no."

The corners of the young man's lips twitch, not completely in a smile, but there is a knowing, snarky hint in his look. He takes in Potter's mis-buttoned and wrinkled dress shirt, dark stain on his left breast pocket, and dark, smeared lipstick on his neck that hadn't been completely wiped off. "Ok, mister," he teases, and proceeds to make a show of slowly thumbing through a binder of records. "Yes, I _do_ remember seeing a woman rushing out that fit that exact description." He snaps his fingers. " _Yes,_ Room 309, right here," he lies—there was nothing written under the room. "She was wearing a…skirt and tank top and blazer, heeled shoes?"

A spark of recognization flashes behind his glasses. "Yes—!"

"She literally ran out of here two hours ago."

—-—-—-—-—-—

Harry almost misses the train that would take him to the junction of Scotland Place. Almost, but barely. And he ignores the looks from muggle school children who catch sight of the wonky watch with the crooked hands and figures it must be some sort of gag or toy. He glares when a small girl attempts to pickpocket him and when she freezes, asking his about the scar on his forehead, he muses with his hair and gets off at his stop that had conveniently approached.

He yawns and he become just another one of the worn out, monotonous adults on their way to work.

After literally running out of the hotel—and following hastily dumping the amount for the night's stay on the counter—he made sure to find an empty space in between two buildings to apparate back to his small flat where, with a wave of his wand, of course, freshened and used the loo.

When he arrives at the Ministry of Magic, its crowded tunnels were a stale sort of welcome. A woman bumps his shoulder in a haste to get to the fireplace he'd just exited. As he turned, the green flames of her departure reflecting on the back of his suit, he is swept away in the rushing current of people.

It's discouraging. It's dejecting, disconcerting, harrowing.

It's disappointing.

Five years and two months of being an auror and this is what is left after the hype has gone down, since the amount of cases have dwindled greatly to where it is now mostly office work and petty arrests. His eyes blank and gloss over, becoming another one of the obedient dogs of the Ministry. Not for the first time, he reminisces on the days out on the field and thinks about those Quidditch recruits he's either turned down or told he'd "get back with them."

He catches sight of an older man with what looks like his son and Harry's is reminded of his visit with Arthur Weasley all those years ago.

Now that he's thought about it, Harry hasn't contacted the Weasleys for some time now and wouldn't be surprised to receive an owl from Molly in the near future. But for now—

He wipes his mouth nervously and regrets his decision of last night and forgetting work the next morning.

He gives a quick, curt nod in the direction of the secretary stationed outside the Head of Aurors office—a young brunette maybe four years younger than him—and he enters the Aurors' office and it's, for once, it's a flurry and mess of flying papers and envelops and wizards and witches rushing. Harry holds in a groan, wishing it was the usual mundane workday of calm and silence where a pen's drop could be heard.

There's a slight pounding in his head and he regrets not grabbing a cup of coffee at the hotel.

Harry makes it to his office, a secluded, sectioned-office at the far back of the room. On his first day, he had been glad, preferring the far cubicle in row 9, section D he once occupied and avoided the ogling eyes and attention. Before becoming the leader of the aurors.

He pinches the bridge of his nose, angling his glasses out the way and restrains his groan from being _too_ distractedly loud when he enters and sees a familiar grayish brown owl perched on his dark wood desk. There's a roll of parchment tied to its leg, which brought the second onslaught of misfortune that morning. He knew exactly who is was from.

The click of the door closing is drowned out by the bustling and shuffling papers outside.

Harry leans to the side and out of the way when four more sheets of parchment and two envelopes come flying in and land with a soft patter beside the collection of paperwork the owl was casually perched atop.

He inspects it, thanks under his breath that it isn't another howler, and reluctantly unfolds the message from his wife.

It's something about an upcoming gathering with her family and then his stomach drops reading that he's forgotten once again to pick up their son. There's a twist in his gut by the time Harry is finished reading the letter. The last two lines are:

 _You'll be needed this Thursday, and don't be late. And don't bother making the excuse about work. I've already talked with Moss at and said that you've still got plenty of free days cleared up._

 _This is important for James too. He wants to see you._

He wants to shake, ball the paper in his fists, and throw it across the cubicle. Or set it on fire and watch it disappear in warm, orange embers. He wants to grit his teeth and hiss at her for her choice of words, in making it seem like _she's_ the victim.

Instead, Harry flattens the paper out on his desk, grabs the quill resting in an inkwell, and writes out a short response. He ties it back around the owl's leg.

 _Okay._ it said. Just those four letters, nothing else.

She was the reason he left.

This would probably end up growing into some explosive argument once again or surly, bitter cold-shoulders. And she would be mad and their son would start crying and the owl would start flapping angrily...

She was always doing things like forcing him to a gathering or interview which he no doubly knew this was, since the next envelope he opened was an invitation from a magazine for some informative article and an update on the years after the war.

Harry's nostrils flare as he draws a deep, calming breath. He takes a long look at the small pile of memos, shimmies out of his coat, and rolls the long sleeves of his navy blue collared shirt up to his elbows, and plunks down in the thick, matching padded wooden chair.

* * *

"You think this is game, don't you?" Isobel smiles into her phone, but it's more of a grimace and her tone didn't hold as much animosity as it would have if she wasn't by this elderly woman on the train.

"Well…"

"You're enjoying this way too much."

She was answered by a snicker on the other end. "But you had fun, didn't you," the voice—feminine—cooed.

"Do you obviously think taking Zoloft, shots of tequila, and staying out on a _Saturday_ night when I don't even know if I'm going to get called in, counts as _fun_ —?" She pauses to pick a pebble that had found its way into her shoe. Isobel is still wearing her clothes from last night, though it's not like anyone would know, and was almost home—a small apartment flat in downtown London she occasionally shared with Melanie, the receiver in this conversation. There was one more stop before she would need to get off, and walk the rest of the way. She leans over and rubs the blister that had started to form, hissing in discomfort.

"Yes I do. Obviously. And you do too. Don't act like you don't. Pictures don't lie."

"And those show that you're a little shit for taking those when I couldn't defend myself."

Isobel held on to the bar as the subway train ground to a halt and the doors opened. She cradles the phone between her right cheek and shoulder as she emerged back to the world above.

On the other end of the phone, the lady whined playfully and Isobel could hear something clicking in the background. Isobel was grateful for the walk. She needed time to clear her head.

"Yeah, yeah. Hey, you and your _mister_ here looked kinda cute…!"

Isobel groaned. "Not Reese. I told you he's nothing but a sleazy, pig-brained—"

Reese was an…ex- _something_ Isobel had the unfortunate of running into last night. He had probably been on his fourth beer and she hadn't been on her second shot when he sauntered over, baby blue eyed and crisp designer suit and horrid cologne.

He wasn't an ex-friend. He was an ex- _maybe_ , an ex- _could-have-been_ , an ex- _it-almost-had-happened_.

She now had a list of men with those names acquired over the years.

Reese wasn't an ex-lover—he was self-victimizing, narcissistic, a liar, and never left tips; all of his past girlfriends were _sluts_ and _psychos_ and over the phone, Isobel heard him _tell off_ his mother.

Isobel never loved him; never felt _anything_ towards him besides fondness of his salary—which was his hook for picking up women.

He wasn't an ex- _anything_ _,_ and was just a figment of her past. And he remains there.

"No, not _him_ ," Melanie said with an jaundiced shutter. "That Irish guy you met before you disappeared for the rest of the night. Congrats, but not cool, Bel."

The brunette was glad that no one knew or could why her face was turning a slight pink.

Melanie is her good friend since Hogwarts and receiver in this conversation. Both had been in the same house and roommates even after Isobel was allowed to skip to the year she should have been in. But that was another story. Both girls have been friends since year one, were involved in The Battle at Hogwarts, and attended a local university together with a handful of fellow schoolmates. Both had shared a flat until a few years ago.

"…Yeah…Sorry about that," Isobel squeaked.

The roadways and sidewalks morning rush had dwindled down and Isobel was free to not bump into some rude shoulder every ten seconds.

When Melanie mentioned Isobel ditching her, a finger raised to twirl around a curl tickling her nose and her pulse sped as she began fidgeting—pulling her shirt, closing her blazer jacket, fiddling with her hoop earring—and her mind wondered, and she thought about the man she had woken up besides and wonders if he ended up being late to work or whatever.

"I mean damn. Give a girl a signal or sign or something next time."

"Maybe that's something we can work towards?" Isobel smiled, genuinely this time. "How about today in say…four hours I'll pay you back? I still need sleep."

Melanie hummed over the phone. "I think that's gonna have to wait, sweetie. Boss man here _just_ called you in."

Isobel almost trips and twists her ankle.

"Wait? But—"

She wasn't supposed to come in today—

 _If_ she wasn't called in.

 _Shit._

" _And_ you have a package here for you," Melanie paces back in the office.

"A package?"

"Yeah, and it doesn't seem to be of the _second_ kind." That was their code word for anything magic, that didn't originate in the muggle word.

So, it was an ordinary, un-magical package.

"What is it?"

"Now if I told you that, you'd probably take longer to get here."

Isobel could practically _see_ Melanie's smile in her peripheral vision.

—-—-—-—-—-—

Isobel realizes all too late that Melanie didn't reply how long until she was expected back at the office, and instead grumbles under her breath as she waits outside the office of Mr. Pritchett's, surrounded by pasty, pale walls, the smell of the last of the morning brew of the cheap, stale coffee, and by a secretary who looked like they'd much rather be anywhere but here.

Isobel shakes her foot nervously and suddenly her red pencil skirt feels too tight and uncomfortable and she wishes she'd worn her pantsuit instead. Her long, brown curls were pulled back by a scrunchie she grabbed on her way back out the door and her hands nervously tap on her folder in her hands, beating some discordant rhythm.

"Ms. MacDougal?" the secretary calls out, briefly removing the landline from her ear before pressing another button.

Isobel swallows.

The door to the office swings open and she jumps to her feet.

The sixty year old director smile professionally. His voice is deep and gravely as he invites her in."

—-—-—-—-—-—

"Now you—I like you."

Isobel scratches at her bare knees over and over, nerves high. "Thank you…"

"You're smart. Efficient. Your work is _amazing_ , and your diligent, MacDougal. I like that." He's smiling, rubbing his chin and leaning against his shiny, charcoal colored desk. He's wearing a silver Rolex watch on his left wrist under his pristine suit.

"Thank you, sir…"

Though she's been here over three years, she's only met the director face-to-face on a number of seven times. Seven. She could count them on her fingers. And yet, this balding, pale man of his sixties and third wife, she shouldn't have felt so intimidated.

She knew a number of others who would have been able to keep an equally intimidating glare...

"Do you know why I called you up here, MacDougal?"

"No, sir."

"It's because of what I keep hearing about you. Do you remember when those spreadsheets were all shat on, and the date on last September when we almost didn't meet the deadline?"

"Yes, sir."

"You," he bellows, pointing a finger in her direction and she slightly jumps. "You, you pulled this department together and saved all the hides of those sorry slackers. You saved this company from a total meltdown, did you know that?"

She did.

"No, sir."

He smiles and she wasn't expecting that he'd have a silver tooth—he seemed more the type to have picked out a golden one.

"Your modest—that's good. Know when to observe and when to assert the situation. And your work ethic is one of the strongest I've seen in a _long_ while." Pritchett's grin disappears and his thick, graying eyebrows create a ridge between them. "Do you socialize a lot? Talk to anyone in the office? Go out? Have fun?"

"W-well I talk to Ms. Stanmore. We just went to a celebration party last weekend," she lied.

She was here at work with nothing to eat that morning and it was nothing but a blessing she wasn't hung over.

"Good, good…" He leans back again.

Isobel watches worriedly as his thick, sausage fingers mesh together and make a joined pointing finger towards her.

"First, I'd like to know if you can meet me for lunch over at Wright Brothers to discuss your position and work ethic, since word has it that a few new openings are going to become available. Say, if tomorrow at eleven thirty? A.M. Because I know I'm going to be late 'cause my wife's going to want me to help her with dinner tonight…and she likes to cook those _hearty_ meals around this time, and I'm probably going to get here late anyways tomorrow. That it is."

Isobel just stares, wide eyed and jaw partially slacked.

"So, it tomorrow, breakfast/lunch—brunch—okay?" Pritchett outstretches his arms, a slight grin growing on his face.

Her tongue stutters.

That silver tooth glints in the fluorescent lights.

She regains control over her heartbeat and a calm, nice smile stretches her lips. "Yes, sir. That'd be just perfect."

—-—-—-—-—-—

"So what'd he say?!" Melanie presses.

The clicking of both girls' heels bounce off the walls of the hall that led to the lobby. It was lunch break and she and Melanie were determined to get to the small, local restaurant before the lunch rush came. They were going to take Melanie's car—muggle.

"He wants to go get lunch tomorrow around noon. I think he's going to give me a promotion." Isobel holds her package, a small cardboard box, to her ear and shakes it. "Whadaya think it is?"

"First!" Melanie snatches it from her. "Don't _shake_ it, you heathen! I bet he wrapped it with care!" There was already a long red rose tucked under her arm that had been positioned atop the small box when it was delivered.

Isobel wasn't going to remark that he didn't work with UPS.

"Then how 'bout you just open it?" Isobel crosses her arms.

Melanie tosses the box in the air once as they approached her parked red convertible. She purposely prolonged it, until they both buckled, and were three blocks away at a red light that Melanie took out a spare house key from the middle compartment between the driver and passenger seat. She mused the box over once and then tossed it.

"Here you go."

Isobel fumbled it. "I want _you_ to open it!"

"It's _your_ package, not mine!"

Isobel frowned.

"What if it's an engagement ring?"

"Already got one, remember…?" Isobel's grip around the package tighten. It went unnoticed to Melanie.

She honked and screamed when a truck tried to cut in front of her. With the dark sunglasses, lipstick, and red she wore, she looked like something out of an American 20s magazine. All she was missing was a cigarette holder.

"You know what I mean. What if it's a diamond necklace or earrings or—what if it's plane tickets or something!"

Isobel's eyes narrowed. "Why don't you go and get married. I'm sure your guy would spoil you—or you'd drive him up the wall telling him."

"Har har. No guy would be able to handle all this—"

"Crazy?"

Isobel earned a playful smack on the arm.

She didn't open the package until later that night, with a much more sullen look. It was a letter, a seashell inscribed with a small seahorse —her favorite sea animal —and a small bracelet. The letter was an endearing one, with his flow of words that used to woo her back in school.

That night she also realized she misplaced one of her earrings she had worn last night. She'd walked around at work with one earring all day.

* * *

Luckily, there weren't in the lobby of Gringotts— _that_ would have turned into an ugly, ugly situation and perhaps bring another Goblin rebellion. Though it was much, much easier than having a confrontation in front of about thirty other Goblins, one can prove to be more than enough to handle.

"—Is _that_ it, you _grimy wizard_!? Speak up! Use your words! You blabbering, overbearing, _moronic_ muggle girl!"

The Goblin practically _screamed_ in Hermione's face.

He _was_ screaming in her face. She could feel the heat of his rancid breath on her face. But she stood tall. She had been for over ten minutes now.

"Mr. Gretchwal—"

" _Huh_? That what you think, is it, girl? That you and all your self-righteous, pasty _compadres_ of yours is going to bloody _listen to you_?"

"Mr. Gretch—"

"Granger! The _brightest witch of her age_ —" he spat off to the side and Hermione retained her grimace, "—actually _thinks_ she can waltz up in here and steal _my_ gold from me! You stupid, _stupid_ mudbloo—"

"That's _enough_!"

The room becomes quiet and the Goblin reels back on the tall stool he used to become eye level, black eyes widening for a moment at her holler.

Hermione continues. "Now if you'd _listen_ , you'd _know_ that _no one_ is after your gold." Her nose flares, a telltale sign when her emotions are escalating. "That is not the reason we're here, and you know that—"

That's when the shorter creature took a swing at her, claws outstretched and jaws lunging for her face.


End file.
